Showing all posts tagged humility

Humble pie. An old-fashioned phrase. Makes me think of a picnic in springtime, a checkerboard tablecloth, and someone joyriding through a forest in a horse-drawn wagon. That person thinks he’s king of the world. He’s showing off but all-too-soon he hits a rock, is catapulted from his dinky wooden seat, and with arms and legs flailing catches air and unceremoniously lands in a huge puddle. Mud covers him from head to toe.

Don’t ask me where I got this visual. I have no idea. But when people say, “He’s too big for his britches,” something along these lines comes to mind.

What is humility, exactly?

In modern parlance, we’ve wrongly accepted it as having low self-esteem. It’s not that.

Merriam-Webster’s defines it as the quality or state of not being proud or haughty. To be humble is also to rank low in a hierarchy or scale. To be unpretentious.

Note that these definitions do not indicate intrinsic value. You can be a cog in the wheel of a large organization, but if doing your job enables others to get theirs done too, you’re not exactly worthless, are you?

My grandfather used to say he was a “peanut” when he described his career as an engineer at Boeing in Seattle, WA. A former WWII pilot and instructor, he was extremely bright and capable, and held a variety of positions which relocated his family a handful of times over the years. But no matter how much I admired his work, his perspective was different. He’d grown up in the Great Depression, and lived apart from his mom for seven years on a small farm outside of Vancouver, WA with his father and sister, while his mother provided income as washer woman in Seattle. She sent money down to her family every time she got a paycheck. He never forgot arriving at that farm house for the very first time and realizing that the only running water came through a rough, open pipe over the kitchen sink, fed by a trickling local stream. Though the amenities did improve, prolonged family separation – not by choice but by necessity – and hard times, left marks. He never took blessings for granted. Instead, he took the opportunities he was given and used them to serve others. He always gave others credit and downplayed his own contributions. He was holding all things in proper perspective, the way a truly humble person navigates life.

So it made sense to me, sitting at his memorial service, that here was a man who had spent his life making kind overtures. Yes, he helped feed and clothe the homeless through his church, and volunteered countless hours to manage the books for community groups. But another thing he did really struck me.

In his later years, he joined a yacht club and rose ‘through the chairs’ to become Commodore. At the end of the monthly members’ meeting, he had a personal tradition of “Naming the House.” Starting on one side of the room and making his way around, he would say the name of every person present, and if there was enough time, also the name of his/her spouse and their boat. At any meeting, there might be as many as 200 people present.

This is notable for a few reasons:

First, what a memory! Keeping his mind sharp was always important to him, but he must have spent days studying the roster. It shows a level of dedication to his organization that I believe most leaders don’t have.

Second, he was looking at each person as he said their name and relayed information pertinent to that person’s life. How often do we tell others that they are seen? That we know them? That we care who they are?

And finally, he was not doing this to show off or to elevate himself above his fellow members. He did it because he fully understood that once his term was up, he would reassume his place in the crew. Despite the fancy uniform and podium he was speaking from – he was – essentially – just like them, and he valued each of them for who they were individually. His heart was in serving them. He knew that each person was important – a valued member – and he wanted them to know that he would never forget a single one.

This how God sees us.

He looks upon us with tremendous love – boundless affection – and says, “I know you. Every part of you. And in my leadership, I will never forget you.”

To show us that he understands, He sent us Himself in Jesus. Fully man, and fully divine, a person who was similarly tested in all ways, but remained without sin. (Hebrews 4:15) God “gets” us.

True humility on our part is recognizing our rightful place in the world, which is neither less than nor greater than any other human being, but bowing only toward the One Who is.

How does this thought strike you? Is it strange? Foreign? Liberating?

Our intrinsic value is not defined by our position. It is not related to our income, connections, careers, or even our bad habits.

We were created in love by the One Who cradles us in the palm of His hand and calls us Beloved. This is where we find our true worth.

I’ve always liked “Rosie the Riveter,” the iconic WWII figure famously portrayed in this painting by Norman Rockwell. Years ago, I had a copy of this print in my office. Rosie symbolized the thousands of women in industrial jobs who replaced men gone to fight. She embodied the spirit of a new phase in American life.

I look at her and I see Resolve. Tenacity. Perseverance. Strength. Courage.

And I know that under her tough-as-nails exterior, she was also tender and womanly. To convey her feminine charms, some artists even portrayed her with noticeably red lips.

I can relate to Rosie’s “taking care of business” attitude, and I suspect that most American women do.

But I also wonder about her quieter moments. The ones where she kept her home together. Held her kids. And perhaps marveled about the way thousands of little bolts can hold one big vehicle together.

I have a riveting gun too, you see. It’s just invisible. Its’ bolts are tiny interactions, layered one on top of another over months and years until hopefully, finally, in the end, my contributions will have aided in the creation of a self-sufficient and loving adult. Three of them, in fact. At least, this is what I envision.

I get so consumed with trying to make sure that everything is powered down and in place that I can forget the beautiful whimsy of working on long-term projects that are large, grand, and so very, very important. And also so very different, complicated, and not “projects” at all – but God-given gifts who are entrusted to me (and my husband) for a time.

I can fail to really see each one of them at all.

That is, until I experience a moment like the one I experienced tonight. Because – let’s face it – my kids’ growing up experience isn’t just about them, is it?

It was all normal enough – laying out my son’s clothes for school tomorrow.

Except that tomorrow is his last day of kindergarten.

My baby’s last day of kindergarten.

His navy blue shorts and white shirt suddenly looked so, so small.

A metaphorical hammer was coming down on my head as I realized he wouldn’t fit into these clothes come fall. They are already tight, and he’s our last child.

He’s my baby.

I stood there. Suddenly fighting to breathe.

I ran to his bed, where he lay, silently sleeping.

I stroked his hair. Touched his cheek. Held his hand.

Wiped tears from my face with the back of my other hand.

There were so many projects I had planned to do this year while he was spending days in kindergarten. Some got done. Others didn’t.

And? No one was keeping score.

But like Rosie, I was doing the work of a new phase in my own life.

Invisible rivets. Laying down the foundation for what will be when he finishes 1st grade, and 2nd, and 12th, and so on.

I heard his knock at the door of my Northern Virginia apartment, and when I answered it, I saw something amazing. This guy, who I knew was from Philadelphia (where I spent my high school years, came of age, and developed a sense of humor) was wearing jeans, a shirt I liked, and…cowboy boots.

My dad wore cowboy boots.

And I really love my dad.

And somewhere in the depths of my mind, I think I already knew that this guy was darn near perfect – for me.

We were married 17 months later, but as I’ve told countless people, “If he’d asked me to marry him three weeks into our relationship, I would have said yes. It might have seemed crazy, but I wouldn’t have been wrong.” We’re coming up on 18 married years together, and he still amazes me.

My husband and me on our third date – one week into our relationship. We were headed to an inaugural ball for President Clinton’s second inauguration. I thought he looked quite spiffy.

Today is his birthday. We celebrate him. And here are just four of the many reasons why I love him.

His faithfulness. If you are his friend, you know this to be true. He will be there for you when you need him. There’s no way to tally the number of late-night calls he’s taken, listening to a friend.

And when there’s a family event, he makes every possible effort to attend or, at the very least, to call or send a gift. He knows that actions count, and so he takes action to make sure that those who are important to him know where his heart lies.

His thoughtfulness. For my first birthday after we were married, he gave me a 1920 Pathe Freres Victrola, along with antique records of foxtrots and waltzes. I cried with joy. Its sound was almost deafening in our WWII-era apartment, with its ultra-thin carpets and hardwood floors, but oh how I loved it. It’s still my favorite gift, and there have been many over the years. He has a knack for giving, because he thoughtfully considers the enjoyment of the receipient. Again – his heart is in the effort, and it shows.

His humility. Sometime in those early years before we had kids, we had a conversation about education. He said he was grateful for his Catholic schools, and thought it would be good to give back. “Maybe some day we could send a kid to school,” he said, “someone who couldn’t afford it otherwise.” I looked at him with wonder and felt gooshy inside. “Yes,” I said, “Sometimes you hear about people doing that.” He looked right into my eyes and said, “Well, no one would know. It would have to be anonymous.”

I was gobsmacked. Giving so generously without seeking credit was something that had never occurred to me. I was in awe of him – in awe of the way he was emphatic about this. There would be no changing his mind. With three kids in Catholic schools now, and college on the horizon, we are still a ways off from being able to make a gift of this size. But if we ever do, you will never know.

His desire to grow. My husband has a way of speaking that conveys an air of authority. At first, this unnerved me. So much so that when we were dating, I suggested he start prefacing statements with, “I think,” so as to sound a bit less declarative. And to my shock, he immediately thought that was a very good idea. He continues to look for ways to develop his mind, body, and spirit, and this habit still impresses me.

There is so much more to every person than meets the eye. And no one has taught me this more than the man I married.

Over the years, we have grown together in countless ways. But he is still the most generous and least stubborn of the two of us. He is the better friend. And he is so humble and willing to do what’s right that he is pretty much always the first to apologize when we’ve had a disagreement.

And his apologies? They are never of the throwaway, ‘Yes, Dear,’ sort. He means it. He does not hold grudges. He wants to reset our relationship. He wants us to start again – as a team.

If God wants us to see an image of Himself in other people, He gave me a beautiful one in my ‘darn near perfect’ husband. And oh, how grateful I am.